


Christmas At Sea

by QueerCrusader



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Trans John Silver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:15:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28314396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueerCrusader/pseuds/QueerCrusader
Summary: John Silver decides to organise some Christmas celebrations aboard the Walrus.
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/John Silver
Comments: 8
Kudos: 40





	Christmas At Sea

**Author's Note:**

> I've taken inspiration for trans!John from [this post](https://calamitys-child.tumblr.com/post/626185407985516544/okay-question-and-i-hope-u-dont-mind-me). In particular, this bit:  
>  _He thinks, in his more superstitious moments, about how Flint summoned a tempest from grief, and thinks about the way his beard didn’t much grow until he met Flint, who called him Mr Silver, who saw through every lie he had told and found that truthful._  
>  Anyway, Christmas magic is real, this fic doesn't really fit anywhere on the canonical timeline, and characters who are supposed to be dead are most definitely not. Take this fic with a grain of salt, and enjoy!!

John can actually _sense_ when trouble is about to hit, like someone with arthritis can sense a storm gathering. He hops off the crossbeam, wary of his leg, just as the captain’s cabin door opens and Flint emerges with a murderous expression. They meet halfway across the deck, Silver’s hands up to placate or physically restrain Flint, whatever will turn out to be necessary.

“Now, before you say anything…”

“What the fuck is this mess?”

John sighs. “Do you know what today’s date is, captain?”

Flint just frowns at him. John will take that as a _no_ , then.

“It’s the twenty-fourth.” Still silence. “Of December.”

“Meaning?”

Christ, is he serious? “Puritan upbringing, I take it? How old were you when you went to sea?” Flint is about to snap again, but John honest-to-god _glares_ at him. _Not today_ , he thinks. “Well, for those of us raised in a Catholic environment, it’s Christmas Eve. In fact, it _has_ been the Christmas season for weeks, but it seems Billy and I are the only ones keeping track of the dates on this godforsaken vessel. Now, if I suspect you’re even _thinking_ of removing decorations, I will personally throw you overboard.” Flint raises an eyebrow at that, as if to say _I would love to see you try_ , and John clears his throat. “Respectfully, captain.”

Flint looks up at the mast. Billy is in the middle of wrapping ivy and holly leaves made of cotton, paper and hemp rope around the mast. “Of course, we have a reputation to think of,” he notes, his face inscrutable. Even after all this time, John struggles to determine exactly when the man is fucking with him sometimes.

“Fuck reputation,” he retorts. “You’re captain Flint. I’m Long John Silver. If they laugh, we shoot them.”

“Not exactly the Christmas spirit.”

“As if you’d know.”

The corner of Flint’s mouth twitches, then, and John lets out a little breath of relief. Flint _is_ fucking with him. Good. It means he’s in a good mood, and he’s not about to just shut all of his suggestions down. “Right, so since we missed St Nicholas day, I’m sure you have no issue with us exchanging gifts today instead –”

“Actually, I do,” Flint intersects him, and John rolls his eyes.

“Oh, come _on_!” he practically whines. “Throw me a fucking bone, here, captain.” But Flint holds up his hand to silence him.

“I have an issue,” he continues, “because I haven’t had the chance to get anyone anything.” His voice drops off at the end, and he’s avoiding John’s gaze. _Huh._ Who would’ve imagined it?

“Alright,” John says, feeling like he’s on thin ice here, unsure of where the missteps are that might break the fragile acceptance of all the things he has planned. “I’ll speak to the crew. The best I can do is tomorrow morning. Is that enough time?”

Flint is quiet for a moment, but then he finally looks at John, a strange look in his eye. “That will do,” he tells his quartermaster then before walking off. John lets out another sigh of relief. Sure, Flint has no idea what else he has planned, but for now, this blanket permission is good enough.

* * *

John feels like he’s running all day long, hobbling across the deck and through the hold to go from the food stores to the kitchen to the mast, checking on everyone he’s delegated tasks to. He’s got three whole geese cooking, not an easy feat, especially for him – which is why someone else is in charge of the kitchen. The members of the crew who are down in the hold practicing harmonies sound atrocious, possibly because none of them seem to actually know any carols, only shanties. But John has faith in them – or at least that with enough alcohol, the rest of the crew won’t care too much either way. Billy is doing good work with decorating the masts, but as John looks at them, he gets the sense he’s missing something.

With growing horror, he realises exactly what’s wrong with the scene.

“There’s no snowflakes,” he breathes.

“Eh?” Dooley asks beside him, but John shakes his head. Oh, he does _not_ have time. Especially if he wants to decorate the entire fucking ship. He should have started weeks, perhaps months ago, but back then he barely thought he’d make it ‘til the next week, let alone Christmas. What does a pirate king need to keep Christmas in mind for?

_One_ , he thinks. _Just one. Or maybe a star._ Something to top the mainmast with. Oh, but it’d have to be big, and sturdy too if he wants it to survive the winds up there…

He’s already planning the pattern in his head as he heads back inside, going straight for the one place he knows contains paper – the captain’s cabin. Flint looks up from his maps when John enters, surprise on his face, but John just moves past him, grabbing a roll of paper.

“Silver,” he says. “Have you talked to the crew, then?”

“Do I look like I have the time?” John retorts as he searches around the office. He needs some tools; tweezers, possibly some needle and thread. Something sharp to cut his paper with – something that isn’t a big clunky cutlass. He spots Flint’s navigational tools, and quickly steps into his space to grab them, causing the captain to cry out in protest.

“Just need to borrow these,” John tries, but Flint’s hand shoots out to grab his wrist, keeping him where he is.

“And where the fuck do you think you’re going with those?” Flint asks.

“You’ll get them back.”

“I’m using them now, John. Doing important things. Like charting a course to get us home.”

John swallows. Flint is so close, John can _smell_ him. The leather of his coat, the salt clinging to his skin. The musky hint of sweat none of the men are able to shed out here in the tropics, a smell that John has unfortunately learned differs ever so slightly for each crew member. Something about Flint’s particular scent is heady, and he feels himself flush at the realisation that he finds it oddly intoxicating.

“I won’t be long,” he manages to say eventually, when he’s remembered how to speak again. Flint cocks an eyebrow.

“I’ve seen you handle my tools before, Silver,” he says then, bringing the few gears still turning in John’s head to a grinding halt. “Whether you use them for what you call _navigational attempts_ or… whatever it is you’re planning with them now…” He cocks that fucking eyebrow again. “I’d rather not lose sight of them, _especially_ in the knowledge that they’re in your hands.”

John’s not heard most of those words. His mind is still stuck on _handle my tools_.

Of course, he’s looked at the captain before. Plenty of times. He’s cast looks of apprehension, of calculation. Even admiration at times. Surprise, more often than not.

But there’s a certain _look_ he’s very cautiously refrained himself from casting. That’s just a whole mess waiting to happen, John knows. So he’s refrained from looking, something that has taken at times _herculean_ effort. Not because he necessarily has a wandering eye; sure, people are attractive, he’s been aware of this for a long time, but when survival takes over your life, it’s easy to put attraction to the back of your mind. But Flint has made that _hard_. Partly because he’s just always there with his overwhelming presence, a constantly lingering threat, but also because he’s just become one of those shiny little mysteries that John just can’t help but be attracted to. _A sickness indeed._

And then Flint goes and says _that_. And John is a patient man. Really, he is. With a surprising amount of self-control, if he tries. But suddenly, the mental images come flooding in, rooting him to the spot. All he can suddenly is Flint’s hand on his wrist, and his own hand on Flint’s… well, _tools_.

“How about I stay within view?” he tries, forced to clear his throat. “I uh, I can just sit here and make my star. Shouldn’t take more than an hour.”

Flint hums, clearly contemplating whether he’s able to put up with John’s presence for such a length of time, but then he concedes and nods. “Go on, then.”

John beams his most brilliant smile. “Oh, captain! Is this your giving Christmas spirit I am witnessing?”

“Just get to your fucking corner and don’t bother me,” Flint retorts, but he says it with a smile. John can’t help but smile in return as he takes the paper and tools to the bed in the windowsill. It’s been a while since he’s sat here; memories of those hazy, pain-filled days after losing his leg re-emerge in his mind, and he quickly suppresses them to focus on the paper in his hands instead. Not that the paper sparks memories of a particularly happier time, but at least they’re not filled with pain.

He’s about fifteen minutes into crafting his intricate paper star when he looks up to find Flint has stopped his work and is now instead staring at him.

“Can I help you?” he asks, his hands stilling.

Flint almost looks guilty at having been caught. Almost. He shakes his head a little. “I’ve never seen you so absorbed in a task,” he replies. For a second, John expects Flint to ask where he learned it, and he tenses in anticipation, but then Flint manages to surprise him.   
“It’s a nice change.”

“Oh.” John looks at his hands which are carefully holding the half-formed paper star. It’s promising to be both huge and sturdy. He’s rather proud of how it’s turning out, if he’s honest. “Yes, I suppose I don’t often get the chance to sit down and do something like this.”

“You should try whittling. You put a knife to wood rather than to paper, but it’s surprisingly calming, if a bit of a crude craft.”

John nods, feeling a little dumb-struck by the conversation. He’d not taken Flint for someone who enjoys crafting. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

Outside the cabin he finds Joshua enthusiastically hanging up kissing boughs from the most inconspicuous places. “Really, Joshua?” John calls, and the man grins boyishly.

“Some of us are blessed with good looks,” Joshua calls back as he tucks in a piece of fake holly and mistletoe before shoving in some cloves in to keep it all in place. “But some of you are frankly butt-ugly. Consider this my act of charity, to get you all some action.”

“Says the man who fucked the dairy goat.”

“Only because there’s not a single option among you I’d rather consider,” he winks. Several crew members pipe up in protest, but John roars with laughter. He’ll allow it, for now. But if Vincent and Nicholas end up coming to blows because one of them was forced to make out with a random crew member, he’s taking the balls down.

Billy carefully takes his quilled star, raising a silent eyebrow as to question where the delicately crafted item came from, but he mercifully remains quiet as he takes it up into the rigging. A part of John wonders what will happen if they do come across another pirate vessel, or perhaps a merchant vessel. How they will respond. Not that it matters much; they’ll sink any ship that dares question their authority in these waters. But he’s still curious to see their faces at the sight of a festively decorated rigger flying the black.

_Hmm._ Speaking of… Perhaps he can decorate the flag as well. Undoing embroidery isn’t exactly hard, so he can always remove his work afterwards when the season is over. Perhaps their little skeleton friend deserves a present.

* * *

“This is awful,” Flint laughs as Dobbs roars the words of _Joy To The World_. Everyone is drunk, including John and Flint. John suspects that even the dairy goat may be drunk, though he sincerely hopes that isn’t the case. He fears for both the animal’s health and for what may happen to the taste of her milk over the next few days if that is the case.

“Speak for yourself,” John replies. “I’m having _great_ time.”

Yes, the singing is awful. Yes, Dobbs clearly is even _more_ clueless about the lyrics than the melody, which is quite a feat and really a shame since he decided to take such a prominent lead with the song. But John has honestly not laughed this hard in… probably years.

“Did you manage to get a present?” John asks Flint then, who seems a bit too preoccupied with staring at John’s face to realise someone is speaking to him. It sparks a flash of panic in John, and he’s about to reach up to brush down his facial hair, before he realises that he doesn’t have to. The time of fake beards is long gone. He only did it a few times to seem more mature and feel better when circulating around spaces with lots of reflective surfaces. When he started sailing around the tropics, it simply became too irritating. The fake beard and moustache were warm and looked kind of awful on him, and the sweat often washed the glue away, making them come undone within minutes.

It wasn’t until he met Flint – Flint, inscrutable Flint, more myth than man; Flint, who seemed to conjure and tame tempests through sheer conviction alone; Flint, who had called him _Mr Silver_ – that his stubble started to truly show.

“Flint,” he tries again. “Do we need to move the gift-giving again?”

“Hmm?” Flint blinks. “Oh. Uh, if you could. Would be much appreciated.”

_Much appreciated._ Good fucking lord, John thinks. Words of a captain, right there.

“Hey, lads!” he calls out over the boisterous crew between carols. “Are we good shifting the gift-giving one more day along?”

“What, to St Stephen’s Day? Christmas is over by then!” Colin protests. “That’s when the rich give the servants their fucking scraps!”

“Yeah, well, this year _we_ are the receivers of charity,” John barks. “You’re lucky you’re getting anything, you bunch of inbreds.”

“I think it’s fitting,” Muldoon pipes up with a playful smirk. “After all, ain’t we all but humble paupers? Everyone knows pirates live in eternal poverty.”

The crew bursts into roaring laughter at that, one of the men actually chucking a solid gold coin across the space that Muldoon barely dodges.

“Oi! You take someone’s eye out, I’ll have your hide,” John threatens, but the men soon behave themselves again, as far as that’s possible, anyway.

They eat their geese and drink their wine. Even Flint seems to be having a good time, though he’s nowhere near as raucous as the rest of the crew. He eventually vanishes, getting an early-ish night, John guesses. The man prefers his quiet. It’s a miracle he even lasted this long.

“Going for a piss,” he tells whoever is roaring the very sexual and obviously made-up lyrics of another carol in his ear at some point. He’s halfway down the corridor running along the hold when he bumps into a solid form.

“John!” Muldoon crows. “Fuck, come here you handsome fuckin’ devil!”

Before he realises what is happening, John is pulled into a noisy kiss. He splutters against Muldoon’s lips, which move a little clumsily – though not as unpleasantly as they could have, considering the man’s state of inebriation – against his own.

“Look, I appreciate the love, I do,” John manages when he’s been released, “but what did I owe that for?”

“Kissing bough,” Muldoon grins, pointing up at the ball of mistletoe and cloves. He’s got mild beard burn, John realises with a hint of pride. Still, he’s gonna murder Joshua for this. He smacks his lips a little.

“Did you throw up?” he asks.

“Just some acid reflux,” Muldoon replies cheerfully, which doesn’t _quite_ seem accurate, based on the lingering flavour. John grimaces and reaches up to pluck a clove from the bough, promptly shoving it in his mouth. Muldoon only shrugs, then continues on his way back to the rest of the crew, while John makes his way to the back to relieve himself.

When he’s done, he emerges out of the hold and onto the upper deck, taking in some much-needed fresh air. Winter doesn’t exist in the Bahamas, but every now and then, the temperature drops. Mostly during storms, when the rain hammers down and soaks him through to the bone, but on occasional clear winter nights, he can almost imagine being out on the English seas, the temperature having dropped enough to remind him of perhaps his childhood Autumns.

Flint is there, too, John is pleased to see. He’s not quite gone to bed yet, then.

“How much longer do you think they’ll be celebrating for?” Flint asks as he leans his arms on the wooden bannister. John subconsciously mimics him, breathing in the sea breeze.

“Oh, for the next two days at _least_ ,” he replies with a smile. “Especially since we’ve had to move the gift-giving.”

Flint groans at that, dropping his head and shaking it. “I messed up on that one, didn’t I?”

“Oh, don’t blame yourself,” John replies. “Technically, Christmas doesn’t end until the sixth.”

“Of _January_!?”

“Yup.”

“Oh, I’m gonna have to alter our routes to avoid coming into contact with _any_ vessel out here, aren’t I,” Flint mutters.

“Yeah, I doubt they’ll be in any state to successfully raid or convey any kind of scary pirate threat until then. Sorry.”

But Flint simply smiles. _He really must be drunk_ , John thinks absentmindedly. Flint never smiles this often otherwise. Certainly not these days. “I was going to thank you, actually,” he says, once again surprising John. “They needed this.” _You needed this_ , John can hear, not sure when he’s started to be able to read the captain’s mind like this.

“I was going to ask…”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

Flint’s eyes go soft at that. “John,” he says, and John hates it, he really does. He breathes in the sea breeze once more, feeling the alcohol hum in his veins.

“It was a catholic orphanage,” he says then. Half-truths. Some things Flint doesn’t need to know, some things he’s not asking after, and some things John just doesn’t feel like sharing, even when doing so unprompted. “No puritans, no protestants. Christmas was _big_ for us. We were the ones who received the boxes on St Stephen’s Day.”

“I’m just surprised at your quilling skills,” Flint says. “I always thought it was for the rich. Not little orphan kids.”

John huffs. “You’re not wrong,” he admits. “We had these… _ladies of standing_ visit every year. Their annual act of charity, if you will. They would teach us the art of quilling, and in return, we could sell our decorations and ornaments for a little extra money.” He smiles. “Of course, we kept some for ourselves too, to decorate our rooms with.”

He thinks back to a particular Christmas. He must’ve been what, twelve? Puberty had come early for him, in all its cruelty. But that year, one of the women visiting had been this eccentric older lady, looking rather conservative and old-fashioned with her high collar – odd, since the puritans don’t celebrate Christmas, and the rich prefer the height of fashion. She’d taken one look at him in his ill-fitting clothing and the way he moved, clearly trying to hide any shape his body might have developed as he’d grown older, and made an executive decision.

_I need to speak to this one alone._

The matron thought he’d be adopted that day, but John knew better. No-one would adopt him. He was too old, too much of a troublemaker. By then, he didn’t _want_ to be adopted. He feared for his life when the woman escorted him to the matron’s office and started undoing the bodice of her dress – until she had revealed that her bust was created with padding, hiding a completely flat, mildly hairy chest.

She had spoken to him for an hour, while he barely replied. She spoke to him of gender, of bodies, of ways he could hide or change parts of how he looked, should he so wish. She rather liked her chest hair, for example. John hadn’t said anything; he’d just sat there, panicking, but thinking. But his world had changed.

He ran away two weeks later.

But none of that is Flint’s concern. Who he was back then isn’t Flint’s concern. That life has been dead and buried for a long time. Nevertheless, the scars running along his own flat chest are itching again. He idly scratches them.

“Thank you,” Flint says again, this time far more softly. John looks up from his musings, only to find Flint standing far closer than he’d expected. He swallows heavily, nearly choking on his clove.

“For what?” he splutters when he catches his breath.

“For being candid,” Flint replies. “For organising this.” He leans in then, and John’s heart stops beating. “For everything, here and now.”

Flint doesn’t taste like acid reflux. He’s drunk too, but he’s nowhere near as clumsy as Muldoon. Instead, he’s careful, tentative. As soon as John relaxes into the kiss – because of _course_ he does; much as he’s been denying it, he’s been wanting this since the day he laid eyes on the angry ginger bastard – something seems to wash over Flint. He leans into it fully then, drinking John in like a parched man in a desert. John nearly loses his balance, one hand shooting up to grasp the back of Flint’s head while he steadies himself against the bannister with the other. His nails drag over Flint’s scalp, and the man moans lowly into his mouth, sparking something low in John’s abdomen.

“Captain,” John gasps when they break away. He can feel Flint’s mouth curve into a smile against his lips, and it’s intoxicating, more addictive than opium. Oh, he’s _ruined_. “I… Ah, fuck it.” He delves back in, and this time, the kiss turns hungry and deep. Flint explores his mouth with that same overwhelming presence John has gotten to know and love, that physical presence John can sense even when he has his back turned on the man. A threat, a reminder, a promise, all rolled into one, and John wants _more_.

When they finally break away again to catch their breath, Flint huffs, his forehead pressed against John’s. John can feel the man’s facial hair brush against his, and he shivers.

“Have you been stealing Vane’s smokes?” Flint asks, and John’s jaw drops, irritation rushing over him.

“How _dare_ you bring him up when I’m making out with you!”

“He smokes cloves,” Flint points out, “I just…”

“Oh. Right. Uh, I’ve been chewing one.”

“Do I want to know why?”

“Probably not.”

Flint grimaces at that, and John laughs. “I promise, next time, I won’t taste like Vane.”

“Oh, you make it sound awful.”

“You started this.”

They both let out a deep breath. Flint smiles at him again, then. “Merry Christmas, John.”

“Merry Christmas, James.”

The celebrations go on for several more days, like John had predicted. The gift-giving is a roaring success, even though many of the presents exchanged are small, ridiculous, cheap, or all of the above. John receives a necklace of coral beads that Muldoon threaded himself and a crown-like garland made from left-over decorations from Billy. He proudly wears both items at all times.

Flint has somehow managed to create presents for _every single crew member_. They’re tiny whittled wooden cutlasses, no more than six inches long, and half the crew bursts into little skirmishes upon receiving them, engaging in the funniest swordfights John has ever witnessed.

It can’t possibly have taken him two days, he thinks. It hits him then that Flint must have been making these for _weeks_ , for reasons unknown to John. Perhaps he only felt like whittling cutlasses lately, and he happened to have a large stash of them, only missing a few more. Or maybe, just maybe, he’d been thinking of celebrating Christmas all along.

John knows which one he finds more likely.

They keep forgetting to change the flag back, sailing with a holly-decorated, present-laden skeleton for the next two months. John doesn’t mind. He rather likes seeing the reminder whenever times are hard. Not to mention that Flint rolls his eyes and kisses him every time he lays eyes on the stupid thing.

Yes, it was a successful Christmas indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi to me on [tumblr](https://queer-crusader.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
